Regression
by Rat-chan
Summary: Hannibal and Face have started a tentative romantic relationship, but ghosts Face didn't know were haunting him rise when the two men start stepping up their intimacy. Rating for language, sexual content, and references to abuse.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **The A-Team belongs to other people, who happily make money off it. I, on the other hand, do not get any money for this...

**Notes/Warnings: **This story will deal with past child abuse/molestation and trauma resulting from it. Though this is being written for a kinkmeme prompt, the sensitive subject matter will be handled with care (not written as a kink).

* * *

Face sat on the edge of the bed, unmoving except for the small, slow back and forth slide of his palms on the edge of the mattress. _Relax_ he told himself, feeling the tension in his biceps, as if his body sensed danger and was ready to spring up to fight or flee at the least provocation. _It's just sex,_ he chided himself, ashamed of his own nervousness. He tamped down on the excuses the shivering corners of his mind tried to make, pushing away the whiny _but Hannibal's a **man**_ and the sappy _waited so long_ and especially the trite _nothing will ever be the same._

"Don't be such a fucking _woman_, Peck," he whispered, mentally apologizing to Charissa Sosa in the same breath. Butterflies in the stomach were no more her style than his... but that didn't make the ones fluttering frantically in his gut go away. _Jesus! Is this what every virgin I deflowered felt like? Or was that worse?_ They'd had a fly-by-night playboy popping their cherry, while Face was sitting here waiting for a man he trusted more than himself.

"I keep you waiting, kid?" Hannibal's voice startled him out of his anxious thoughts and he almost jumped to his feet. "And here I was thinking you'd start... without..." The former colonel's voice trailed off as he met Face's wide blue eyes. "Kid?"

Face forced his lips into a smile. "Just a little nervous, boss," he admitted, smile gradually softening into something natural as the warmth in Hannibal's eyes wrapped around him. "Today's the big driving test and it's my first time driving stick."

The older man's mouth curved in response to that, expression suspiciously resembling a leer. "Well you can relax. I'm real good with the clutch."

The butterflies didn't leave, but their fluttering slowed and became significantly hotter, moving deeper into Face's abdomen as he took in that smirk, the toned, scarred body covered only in glistening moisture and a towel, and all the love and lust projecting from his lover's eyes. "I'll bet you are," he replied belatedly, absently.

"Now, what are you doing just sitting there?"

"Hm?"

"I'm gonna lay three ground rules for our shared bed, Temp. Rule 1: You're here because you _want_ to be here."

"No problems there, sir." He wet his lower lip as he smiled again: a slow, lascivious grin. He enjoyed the way Hannibal's eyes locked on the movement. "And rule 2?" he prompted, when the silence stretched a bit long.

"Rule 2," Hannibal continued finally, reaching down to haul Face to his feet. "We do this together, or not at all." He drew the former lieutenant closer to him, the heat of his body radiating to Face, warming away tension without and stoking the fires within.

"Mm, yes, sir!"

"Rule 3! There is no commanding officer in our bed." Hannibal cupped Face's cheek, voice and gaze serious.

"Well then," Face responded when he was able, eyes still locked on the other man's. He turned his head slightly and languidly stroked the palm against his cheek with his tongue. "Why do you get to make all the rules?"

"You got something you want to add?" Hannibal's gruff voice became huskier still.

"Rule 4: We don't waste time."

With that, Face grabbed Hannibal's shoulders and pulled him down with him to the bed. Battle trained reflexes turned their collapse into a controlled dive. They landed with Hannibal on his hands and knees on the bed with Face on his back under him, one leg locked behind Hannibal's knee and lips firmly pressed together.

"I can live with that, kid," the older man responded when he was released long enough for air.

"Rule 5: no 'kid' in bed." Face pulled off the towel that had clung to Hannibal's hips with military precision.

"Ri-ight..." There was a hitch in his answer as Face arched up against him, brushing their groins together. "Whatever you say, ki- Temp," he corrected himself as he went to work removing the clothing his lover was still inexplicably wearing. Face shifted his arms over his head and raised his shoulders to help with the process. When the shirt was gone, Hannibal's hands went to caress the revealed flesh, rough fingers gliding in the fine sheen of sweat as they traced muscles.

"Mmm, Hannibal," Face allowed himself a small moan as the other man's thumb drifted across a nipple. He moaned again, louder, higher, as the action was repeated with more pressure.

There was an answering groan above him. "No one else - not any more." The deep, raspy voice was almost a growl. Face met eyes narrowed around the conflicting fires of jealousy and love. "Please. No one else, Temp."

"I-" Face began, but a cold buzzing around the edges of his consciousness stopped him. "I..." That "please" deserved an answer. "No one else," he whispered softly, but he barely heard his own words.

_"No one else sees you, Templeton. But I do._ I _do."_ The voice echoed distantly in his mind, emanating from the icy static that was slowly spreading from the edges. It spread to his body, cooling his arousal and giving edges to the butterflies' wings.

"God, you're so beautiful..." It was Hannibal's voice that seemed distant now - his touch barely registering through growing numbness.

_"So beautiful, sweet little T. So, so beautiful..."_ The voice sounded closer this time, sliminess oozing from its singsong tones, soiling Face's mind. He felt out of breath and his vision began to cloud. His mouth filled with an unfamiliar, but somehow remembered foul taste: salt and sour, with the acrid tang of bile.

"Hannibal, I-" _No,_ a small, weak voice said in his brain. "Stop," he breathed. _Stop, stop, stop, stop,_ the pathetic little voice pleaded. "Stop!" he cried, pushing Hannibal off him as he darted off the bed and stumbled into the bathroom. He grayed out as unknown memories assaulted him and his blood rushed to his gut. He managed to collapse over the open bowl of the toilet just as his stomach heaved.

"Kid!" Even over his retching, Face could hear the surprise and concern filling Hannibal's voice as he joined him in the bathroom. A large, warm hand moved to stroke his back and Face jerked away, reflexively. "Temp?" There was a mix of emotions that should never be in John "Hannibal" Smith's voice: worry, hurt, doubt, and a hint of fear. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," Face responded honestly. "Oh God, I don't know!"

That frightened him more than anything.

* * *

Apologies for any OOC-ness. I'm still getting used to the characters.


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal watched Face where he lay on the bed, features sill pinched with distress, even in slumber. He reached out a hand, wanting to caress those worry lines away, stroke away the pain and fear, but his hand stopped before it could touch as he remembered the way the younger man had flinched away from his touch.

"Stop," he had said - had cried out with fear and loathing. And then he'd been violently ill.

_Is the thought of making love to me that... disgusting?_ Pain knotted in Hannibal's stomach at the thought. _Damn it! He said he wanted to be there._ And Face really had, at first.

Unwillingly, heat pooled again in Hannibal's abdomen as he remembered the way Face had clung to him, pulling him close as he nearly devoured his lips. The blond's skin had been flushed with desire - his eyes clouded with it - as he'd moaned and writhed with pleasure. _So beautiful,_ he mentally echoed his words of the time. _And then it went wrong, somehow._

"Mm... ugh." His heated train of thoughts was derailed by moans that had nothing to do with pleasure. "No..."

_Jesus, Smith, you are a self-centered asshole._ There he was, thinking about his dick, while Face was fighting some unknown demons.

_And that's just it._ Hannibal knew, despite his gnawing self-doubt (his tentative romantic relationship with the younger man being the only aspect of his life in which he possessed any), that this had nothing to do with him. And everything to do with the small, weak, terrified boy he'd seen looking at him out of his lieutenant's wide blue eyes.

"I don't know!" Face had cried, and then he'd gotten so panicky and sick - so unlike the man who'd laughed as they _flew a tank_ - that Hannibal had finally given him some brandy, laced with a mild sedative. He'd practically had to force the drink down his lover's throat, feeling sick himself at the look of horrified betrayal that had flitted across those normally strong, lovely features before Face had slipped into temporary oblivion.

With a drawn out sigh, Hannibal leaned back in the chair he'd pulled up beside the bed and rubbed his hands over his face. He was tired - weary, body and mind, but he hadn't been able to sleep. Still couldn't as his mind whirled with all the questions that plagued him.

"What happened?" he whispered to the sleeping man as he thrashed again in his sleep. "What is it, kid?" Hannibal finally let himself reach out and touch Face. "Whatever it is, we'll fight it together," he promised gruffly, stroking the hair at his temples. "It's what we do."

"Please..." Face whispered in his sleep.

"Please what, Temp?" But there was no answer. The younger man's head just shook from side to side as small, distressed noises escaped his lips. The muscles of his arms tensed as if he was pushing against some invisible barrier. The nightmare, whatever it was, was getting worse. "Wake up, Face," Hannibal said sharply, deciding on the best course of action.

The other man, however, just whimpered in his sleep, a low, pathetic noise that cut straight through Hannibal, stinging his chest and his eyes. "Templeton Peck, you will wake up now." He leaned over the sleeping man, starting to shake him gently. He wanted that sound to stop, but it didn't. It became louder as Face's thrashing became weaker. "Damn it, soldier, pull yourself together!"

"Aah!" Face awoke with a sharp gasp. "No," he moaned softly, cringing away from Hannibal.

"Face! Kid, it's me. Hannibal." The former colonel pulled back, but he kept his voice firm.

"Hannibal?" The voice became a bit stronger - sounded more like the man he knew.

"That's right, Temp." He reached out a hand tentatively, ready to pull it back again, but Face grabbed it, clutching it as he met his lover's eyes.

"Where am I?" The terror and pain slowly leaked out of the younger man's eyes and his hand steadied in Hannibal's grip.

"You're in my room."

"Your room?" Face's brow wrinkled in thought and then a flush covered his cheeks as (apparently) more pleasant memories surfaced. "Last night! I- we- what happened?"

"You panicked, kid."

"I did?" The frown returned.

"We were doing fine - more than fine." Hannibal could hear the heat suffusing his own voice, but he swallowed it, focusing on the more important issue. "Then, suddenly, you freaked out and got sick." He decided to skip over the drugging part, though he wasn't entirely sure why. "You had nightmares most of the night. You don't remember any of that?"

"I... No... Kind of... I remember getting scared, but I can't remember why. I remember remembering something, but it's gone now. It's all so faint and fading away as we speak. Like a bad dream leftover from childhood. All I feel now is fucking embarrassed."

_A bad dream from childhood..._ "Don't be," he said absently as his mind worked. _That look in his eyes last night... when he first woke up..._ Hannibal knew that look - had seen it in the eyes of countless soldiers in the past and, more recently, in the eyes of a troubled woman who'd come to them for help.

Trauma. That was what he'd seen clouding Face's eyes until it had been repressed again.

"Templeton?" He placed a hand firmly on each of the younger man's shoulders.

"Boss?" The tone was strongly questioning as Face was surprised at the touch and the use of his full first name.

"Did anyone ever... hurt you? When you were younger?" He looked hard into those blue eyes, probing.

But nothing except confusion altered their color and shape as Face answered, "I don't know what you mean."

"No you don't," Hannibal whispered, more to himself. More loudly, he said, "Forget it. Try to go back to sleep."

Face reached out this time, fingers tracing under the older man's eyes. "You look like you could use it more, Hannibal."

"Unfortunately, there's six-odd feet of trouble in my bed." Hannibal smiled, the expression only half-forced.

"I'll behave if you will, boss." There was nothing half about the inviting grin Face gave him. His own smile became more natural as he lay down beside his lover.

"Well, you can start by handing over some of those blankets."

"Yes, sir!" Face responded mockingly, wrapping an arm around Hannibal along with the covers. "Goodnight," he said cheerfully as he snuggled against the older man's side.

"G'night," Hannibal replied, resting a hand over Face's.

_Tomorrow,_ he told himself as his lover's breathing evened out and his hold relaxed. _He can't or won't remember, but_ I will _get to the bottom of this. Starting tomorrow._

* * *

To be continued, soon-ish...


	3. Chapter 3

**reference notes: **There is a large Marince Corp camp in northern San Diego county. San Onofre is the location of a nuclear power plant (near parts of that camp).

* * *

Hannibal looked at his reflection in the mirror. "Commanding officer," is what every inch of it said to him. It wasn't his clothes - he was dressed in khaki pants and a long sleeved shirt with the top two buttons undone for air. He wasn't wearing any visible weapons, dog tags, or even gloves today. He supposed the combat boots and the precise trim of his hair might hint at his military background.

But really, more than anything, it was his stance and grim expression - a more fanciful man might also have said "aura" - that gave away his Army past. A lifetime in the Service and decades in command had given Hannibal an air that mere months on the run could not undo.

Today, however, that wasn't a bad thing. With one last, cool glance at the authority figure in the glass, Hannibal turned briskly on his heel and strode out the door of his room, grabbing and pocketing his wallet on the way. _Down to business._

"Mornin', Boss," a deep voice rumbled from the kitchen as Hannibal walked through the living room. Well, there was step one of the plan out the window already. He'd planned on leaving a note on the fridge and getting out without any questions. That was a bit hard, though, with BA staring blearily at him over a bowl of cereal. Still, the incongruous sight of his large, mohawked comrade sitting on a pink beribboned cushion at the lace-covered kitchen table never failed to make Hannibal smile.

"Good morning, Bosco," he replied naturally, hoping the man was still asleep enough not to notice that his former CO was fully dressed and ready to head out. _I may actually be in luck..._ BA's gaze had returned to his breakfast, which he regarded with far more intensity. Hannibal took the opportunity to pick up a set of keys and slip out the door and into the early morning sunshine.

_Ah, the Los Angeles underground never looked so good,_ he thought ironically, looking around the clean, bright suburban neighborhood they were currently inhabiting. Technically, it was Orange County, but he wasn't about to argue with the smog-free air of Costa Mesa over boundaries. _Face has really outdone himself this time._ He eyed the elegantly pruned rosebushes in front of the tidy house as he made his way to the Buick parked next to BA's van in the driveway. _Even got the old lady to leave us the keys to her car._

His tentative good feeling deserted him as the amusing memory of his former lieutenant convincing the elderly widow that owned this house that they were a crack team of housesitters morphed into a pathetic image of Face crying in his sleep. The younger man had been having nightmares almost every night for the last week. Hannibal hadn't been sleeping with him - had in fact been avoiding most intimacy with him - since that disastrous night, but he could still see the signs in the morning: reddened eyes shadowed below by dark circles and within by vague, lingering fear.

_This ends. Today,_ he promised himself and his lover as he shoved the key into the Buick's lock and savagely turned it.

"Where ya off to, Bossman," a rich Southern drawl interrupted him before he could get in the car.

_Well at least Face is capable of sleeping in..._ "Good morning, Murdock. What's got you out so early?" Chaff deployed.

"Taking Billy for a walk," the pilot replied, apparently taken in by the decoy. He walked up the driveway, right hand posed as if it held a leash.

_The imaginary dog again..._ There was another cause for worry... maybe. Murdock had started talking about "Billy" a few weeks after the events in the harbor. Hannibal didn't know if Billy was like an imaginary friend and therefore a sign of stress and alienation, or just a new delusion for a new environment. "Well, make sure he doesn't mine the front lawn."

"Will do. Now, where are you headed?" The chaff had failed after all. The missile was unavoidable.

"I've just got a bit of business to attend to," he replied vaguely to Murdock's question, not wanting to lie outright. "I'll be back well before dinner."

"Aren't you going to wear a disguise?" the pilot asked as he came up to stand beside Hannibal. "You're starting to get real good at them."

"Don't need one today." He was heading south, where the DOD was represented by the thankfully few and the overly proud. No danger there.

"Ah, not even the cowboy hat from that rodeo getup?" Murdock looked genuinely disappointed. "Faceman sure couldn't take his eyes off you in that," he added coaxingly.

"HM." Hannibal's voice was pitched low, serious and it had an immediate effect on his companion's expression. "Keep an eye on Face. Please."

"Sure thing." Murdock didn't ask why. "Drive safely, Boss. And watch out for the radioactive mutant jarheads 'round San Onofre."

Hannibal grunted noncommittally, got into the car, and, with a last wave to the pilot, backed out of the driveway. He felt a little guilty about being evasive, but what Murdock didn't know, he couldn't be smooth-talked into telling Face.

Not that Hannibal driving down to San Diego to meet Face's former foster brother had to be a secret, but... _It's easier this way. For me._ He'd tried to think of other ways of finding out about Face's past. However, even if Hannibal had the skills of a hacker, old CPS records and school report cards weren't something one found online. And, while a person signed away their privacy when they enlisted, that didn't extend to the Department of Social Services, so even if he weren't a wanted fugitive, a phone call or office visit were out.

_Thank God for the age of social networking._ A few remembered names, a couple searches, and an email exchange later, and a concerned CO was set to meet a curious foster sibling. _Let's hope it's worth the drive._ Apparently it was late enough to be hitting morning commute traffic. It was fine as long as he was on I5, but when he hit the 805 junction? Frankly, there were times when southern California freeways made Hannibal feel like he was still in a warzone, unsure who the enemy was and unable to predict his moves...

_Enough nonsense,_ he chided himself. Plans were what he needed. Step 1: quietly leave the house and drive to San Diego. That was mostly done. Step 2: meet the foster brother (a man with the unfortunate name of Jebediah Jones) in some random Starbucks near the harbor. Step 3: See what the man remembered about Face.

_That's not a plan - that's two teenagers meeting at the mall._ Hannibal spent the remainder of the drive planning his conversational strategies. He toyed with various opening gambits and considered different tacks he might take if the other man proved tight-lipped.

It passed the time and kept his mind off certain images... for the most part.

And, by the time he'd left the Buick in a garage and arrived at what he supposed was the right Starbucks (hard to tell - he thought he might have seen another one a couple blocks away). He asked for the blackest coffee they had and a piece of whatever was least like cake. He still wasn't sure the coffee was black enough for the confection they warmed up for him.

"Colonel Smith?" asked one of the most timid sounding voices Hannibal had ever heard. The man sounded positively frightened and when the former colonel looked up at him, he seemed ready to drop and give Hannibal fifty.

"You Jebediah Jones?" He decided to play to expectations, keeping his back stiff, his voice harsh, and his eyes critical. The man looked as unfortunate as his name: pudgy, pale, and prematurely balding. He nodded nervously, fingers tugging at the hem of his suit jacket. "Then yes, I am. Have a seat, son," he added in a softer tone when Jeb just stood there.

"Er, so... You're T's commanding officer?"

"T?"

"Oh, that's what we called him, since Templeton was too big a name for such a scrawny kid."

_Scrawny? Face?_ "Yeah. He's my XO. My second in command," he clarified.

"That's good. I'm glad he made something of himself. My parents always said-" Jeb swallowed the words like bad coffee.

"Go on."

"After he ran away, my parents always said he'd probably gotten himself killed in some gutter. I..."

"Son, just say whatever you have on your mind." The man clearly had decades old regret desperate for an outlet. With or without plans, he'd sing like a bird.

"You ever read Harry Potter, sir? Well, that's how my parents treated T, 'cept they got government money to take care of him. And I never thought to say shit about it until he split." Jeb was finally warming up, apparently.

"Mr. Jones, do you remember anything happening to him when you still lived together?" No point in dragging the meeting out. "Anything that might make Fa- Templeton... nervous in certain situations?"

"I don't follow."

"Recently, he's shown signs of some repressed trauma. There's nothing in his records," Hannibal lied easily, "and he doesn't remember anything, but... _Something_ clearly happened to him when he was younger."

"I'm sorry sir, but I can- Wait... His sophomore year in high school, when I was a junior. My parents sent me to some study camp for SATs. When I got back, T was... different. Started skipping school and getting in trouble with girls. He'd spend all his free time working out and practicing martial arts."

"And none of his teachers did anything? Or Social Services?" Surely some responsible adult had noticed something.

"No one cared. Not even me, until..."

"Until?"

"I overheard one of his nightmares. You see, Colonel Smith, T was a scrawny kid, but he was never weak, or whiny. That... wasn't him. And it wasn't just that one night. For once, I decided to talk to my father about T. And you know what he did? Went into T's room, smacked him awake, and told him to 'be a man, goddamn it!' My father never blasphemed..."

Jeb was clearly experiencing more bitter emotions, but Hannibal had no pity to spare for him. _Aw, kid,_ he said to Face in his mind, _they did their level best to level you, didn't they._ It was a wonder he'd made it to the military at all, let alone found his way to Hannibal.

"Thank you," he told Jeb distantly, though gratitude was far from his feelings now. The man hadn't told him anything he _wanted_ to hear. "I appreciate you taking the time."

"It's no trouble. It's actually a relief to know T is well. And happy?"

Hannibal nodded firmly. _If I have anything to say about it._

"I'm so glad he's got someone who cares about him."

"The whole unit cares about him." He was being fair, not defensive.

"Good." Jeb rose, smiling as if a weight had been lifted from him. _Transferred to me..._ "You'll give him my regards."

"Sure, son. And thanks again," he said as the man left. He would have said "thanks for nothing," but... he had left Hannibal with something.

_A headache and a bad taste in my mouth that has nothing to do with this coffee._ And a time frame, he supposed.

It was time to talk to Face again.

* * *

Billy the imaginary/invisible dog is from the TV series. As he didn't make an "appearance" in the movie, I decided that he popped up after they went on the run.

Anyway, tbc, soon...


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry about the hiatus. I plan to finish this story in the next week or two, since it has the least to go of all my WIPs.

Face POV here.

* * *

"No!"

For the second time since he'd gone to bed last night - and the umpteenth time that week - Face woke up sitting jolt upright, sweating and with that negation shrill on his lips. Panting and shaking, he clutched the sheets on either side of him and waited for the violent knot of helpless fear and rage to loosen in his gut.

_Not again_, he thought as he fought to calm the racing of his heart and the heaving of his stomach. His eyes darted about the room, looking for something familiar with which to ground himself. The homey Americana décor of the small bedroom, however, only served, incomprehensibly, to agitate his nerves further.

"Fuck," he whispered. "Fucking hell," he added more loudly, irritated at the weakness of his own voice. One by one, he loosed the tightly clenched fingers of his right hand before raising them to grip, more lightly, the dog tags that hung from his neck. "Templeton Peck," he stated firmly as his fingers brushed over the letters graven in the metal. He added his rank and serial number for good measure.

_"Be a man, God damn it!"_ The words echoed back to him, harsh with disgust. Face heard that shout in his head from time to time, though he couldn't remember when - or even if - they'd been spoken to him.

_They're right_, _whoever they are_, the former lieutenant agreed, trying to be equally disgusted with himself. _That_ at least was a feeling he understood. _What the hell is the matter with me_? He cast back to the nightmare that had sent him half-screaming to wakefulness. There hadn't been any proper images - just a terrifying blackness that covered Face, pressing down onto him. He'd tried to push back at it, tried to shout at it - tried to fight it in any way - but he'd been completely unable to move. Heavier and heavier the darkness had become, blanketing him, filling his mouth while impotent rage burned his cheeks, abject fear iced his limbs, and an inexplicable feeling of betrayal tightened his chest.

_Ow_. Pain brought Face back to himself: the pain of his dog tags cutting into his hand. With another, harsher sigh, he released the tiny metal plates.

_Enough_, he decided as he jumped to his feet and headed for the bathroom. Thankfully, it was free.

"Hello there, gorgeous," he greeted his reflection mockingly after he locked the door behind him. Evidence of his restless nights was written all over him: dark circles under his eyes, pallidity under his tan and...

"No." The denial came this time with determined firmness. "Oh, no, no, **no**." But yes, there they were: two gray hairs at his temple. "Shit," he swore, reaching quickly for the tweezers. "This crap is seriously cutting in on my beauty sleep," he bitched deliberately as he plucked the offending strands, glad at least to have more normal concerns to focus on.

The distraction couldn't last, though. When he closed his eyes to splash them with cold water, scenes from this morning's and other dreams waited behind his lids. Sometimes, it was that oppressive, enveloping darkness. Other times, there was a blur of colors and an angry voice, telling him just how contemptible he was.

And sometimes, there was nothing he remembered. He just came to himself, retching drily into the toilet, with no memory of how he got there or of the nightmare that triggered such nausea. Somehow, those times scared him more than anything.

_Fuck this shit_. With angry, jerky motions, Face turned off the tap and went to the shower. He gave the knob a vigorous twist, and, as the water heated up, whipped off the thin T-shirt and briefs he'd slept in and tossed them full-force into the laundry basket. _I'm tired of this! _He got into the shower and stood under its spray. _Tired of waking up two or three times a night_. He turned the water hotter and hotter, until it stung his skin ever so slightly. _Tired of feeling sick and afraid_. He flattened his hands against the shower wall and leaned forward, letting the nearly scalding water wash over the tense muscles of his back. _Tired of not knowing fucking why_! With an inarticulate snarl of frustration, the blond punched the patterned pastel tiles in front of him.

"You OK in there, Facey?" Murdock's concerned drawl brought Face back to himself.

"I'm fine!" he called out to his teammate, voice falsely bright. "Just dropped my conditioner."

"Well, you shouldn't use that stuff anyway. Didn't I tell you what kind of psychotropic drugs they put in there? How d'ya think El Diablo got to be that way?"

"I'll keep that in mind," Face responded, genuine laughter in his voice at the thought of Sosa tripping on Pantene. Still chuckling, he reached for his shampoo. _Good old Murdock_, Face thought as he worked up a good lather. Somehow, with all his insanity, the pilot managed to help the rest of the team stay grounded and whole.

Focusing his thoughts on memories of his unbalanced teammate's more colorful antics, Face finished his shower and came out feeling something like his usual self.

Whistling softly (Murdock's El Diablo song, he realized after a moment) he patted himself dry with his towel before wrapping it around his waist. With extra care given to the slight bags under his eyes, he prepared himself for another day of...

_What _are_ we doing today?_ Since moving into their current suburban abode, they hadn't had any real work. They ate, they trained, they made repairs (well, BA did), they pursued a few hobbies, and they slept... Most of them.

_Damn it!_ He was usually in more control of himself and his emotions. But, in spite of his best efforts, his mind returned to gnawing worry. _This is what comes of boredom_, he decided as he exited the bathroom and returned to his room to get dressed.

"Ah," he sighed happily this time as he opened his closet. If there was one advantage to being out of the Army, it was this: his wardrobe. He ran his fingers over the smooth fabrics, caressing designer labels as he went, breathing in the mixed fragrances of leather and laundry detergent – reveling for a moment in sheer sensory delight. _Army for Armani, eh? _It seemed a fair trade at the moment as Face slipped on fine cotton briefs, cool linen pants, and a plain black T-shirt. _Whoa! Hold up there, tiger. _He frowned at his reflection in the full-length mirror that was attached to the closet door. What was he thinking, wearing a black shirt with beige pants in this season? He started pulling the T-shirt back off. _White will be…_

The thought, and his movement, froze as a dizzying sensation of déjà-vu whirled in his brain. _I've done this before… _"Humph," he snorted, shaking his head. Of course he'd done this before. He continued his interrupted stripping, gazing at the mirror as he pulled it over his head. He saw—

_His thin, white reflection mocking him in the glass. Too scrawny, too pale, and too pretty. "Disgraceful," his foster mother called it. "Disgusting," his foster father had started saying more recently, eyes narrowed with more than disapproval. Templeton didn't know what they wanted from him. With a breathy sigh, he started folding the shirt he'd just removed, knowing he'd need to wear it again sometime before the week was up. He tucked the collar under his chin while he folded the sleeves in. Then, as he was folding the shirt in half, something in the mirror caught his attention. There was a small bruise on his collarbone. He looked closer, heart thudding oddly loudly in his chest. It seemed a bit too red to be a bruise. He moved closer still to the glass, hand trembling inexplicably as it went to the reflection of the mark. He felt sick to his stomach. He really could not remember getting that bruise. His hand moved from the image to the actual blemish. When it made contact, a wave of giddy nausea overtook him and he found himself…_

On his knees in front of the mirror, T-shirt clenched in tanned hands and lower lip quivering in unexplained fear.

_What was that? _His time in foster care wasn't something he normally chose to remember. And why should he remember some random bruise? _It wasn't a bruise, _his adult mind tried to tell him, but as the thought only brought back remembered nausea, he pushed it away.

"Frickin' boredom is what it is," he told himself, pulling the now wrinkled black T-shirt back on. _Fuck it. It's not as if I was going anywhere. _He stood up, ignoring the shakiness of his legs, and stalked to the door. _Time to ask the bossman what the plan is._

"Where's Hannibal?" he asked as he joined BA and Murdock in the living room.

"Left hours ago," the former corporal replied, not looking up from his automotive magazine.

"And good morning to you, too, sunshine," Murdock said at the same time. He didn't appear genuinely upset, though, as he just went back to the cooking show he was watching. "Hmm…" he murmured at the television, "that sounds a bit dull. I'd use gunpowder, personally."

"For the last time, fool, gunpowder is not a spice!" BA was looking up from his magazine now. Or, more accurately, glaring up.

"Any idea where he went?" Face asked, foot tapping. He got vague replies of "somewhere" and "south." _OK, then. _"How about when he'll be back?"

Murdock shrugged. "Sometime before dinner. I'm just putting the menu together now."

"Right." The conman turned on his heel, ignoring the heated (on BA's side) discussion about the merits of combustibles in Cajun cuisine, and headed for the back door. _Sunbathing it is._

_I wonder where Hannibal's gone? _Face pondered as, ten minutes later, he lay back on one of the pool chairs in the back yard. _Why didn't he tell me? _Then again, the boss hadn't been telling him much of anything lately. _Just looking at me all seriously with the same expression he gives Murdock half the time! _If he was going to look at him that way, Face would just as soon the man avoided his company.

Just like he'd been avoiding his touch, ever since that night. _I guess it's hardly surprising after what happened. _But how were they supposed to work through this problem if Hannibal wouldn't so much as kiss Face goodnight?

"Screw you, Hannibal Smith," he cursed his absent, stubborn, almost-lover.

"That an invitation?" a rich, gravelly voice queried from behind him.

Face smiled at that. _Now that's more like it! _"You want to make it one?" He stretched on his chair, arching his back as he did so to offer the older man a better view of smooth golden skin.

"Bit early in the day for that, kid." The smoky note of muted desire in Hannibal's voice sent pleasant shivers down Face's spine.

"I suppose," Face agreed reluctantly, stretching again as the other man approached. "Where've you been?" he asked when the former colonel reached his side.

"I had a meeting," Hannibal answered vaguely. And the younger man watched as those steel eyes began to shutter again. The older man made as if to turn away, but Face caught his wrist.

"You don't have to tell me now," he said coaxingly, gazing up at his lover with lazily narrowed blue eyes. "I'm not really in the mood for talking anyway." He drew the wrist toward him, inhaling Hannibal's scent as he did so. _Too long… _It had been far too long since they'd enjoyed any kind of contact and here in the warm Southern California sun… _It'll be fine._

"Kid," Hannibal didn't quite manage the warning tone he'd likely been aiming for.

"No 'kid.' Not now," Face said, pitching his voice low. He licked his lips slowly as he pulled down inexorably on the other man's arm. Hannibal's eyes followed the languid motion of the blond man's tongue and he didn't resist the pull. "Welcome home," the younger man said when their faces were quite close, "_John_."

With a predatory smile and a soft growl that sent shivers to more than just Face's spine, Hannibal leaned over him on the deck chair and brought their lips together. _Mmm… yes… _Face wrapped an arm around the back of his lover's neck and parted his lips. A warm tongue tasting wonderfully of coffee and cigars slipped in at the invitation, moving languidly along his own. There was another delightful little animal noise and more of Hannibal's weight rested on his chest…

_Pressing him down, holding him, not letting him breathe. Vile, wet noises and the sound of harsh panting filled the room. Too hot hands were on his hips and he wanted to pull them off – push the weight away…_

"Temp!" Hannibal's voice called him, snapping him back to the present. He found himself on hands and knees next to the chair, chest heaving with sobbing breaths. Hannibal was on the other side of the chair, features pinched with concern. "What is it, kid?" he asked softly, pain making his voice even rougher than usual.

"I… I… I…." Each false start was punctuated by another gasping breath.

"Come on, Temp. Fight whatever it is."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. We'll fight it together," Hannibal whispered softly.

"I can't! _I don't even know what the hell I'm fighting!" _A week's worth of stress and apprehension summed up in one desperate sentence. "I have no idea what I'm fighting," he repeated more softly, clutching the seat of the chair as his limbs began trembling.

"Then we'll find out," Hannibal whispered, moving around to sit beside Face, but not touching him. "We'll find out." Slowly, hesitantly, his hand moved to Face's cheek, cupping it gently. The shivering conman looked up to meet his gaze. "One way or another."

Face drew in a deep breath and the steel in his lover's eyes. _I'm not alone this time. _He wasn't sure where that thought came from, but the next words he spoke were all him.

"I'm ready."


End file.
